Coleman, Jackdaw!
The word is flotsam.
The waters are so still that if you squint, you can almost trick yourself into thinking that there’s nothing but a glass plain between you and the Tyrian Spire. Flies the size of pocket-watches hover here and there, and the shores of the Flood here are choked with rusted, mildewed junk, caught in nets of thin wire and thick linen ropes. Not that any of those are yours for the taking: the nets and everything dredged up from the Flood belongs to the salvage-caravan of Beasts here. All around you, their wagons and tents squat, decorated with iron charms and net-charms and icons of the Flood made from glass and her waters; if you want supplies, you’ll either have to deal with them or go well out of your way to dredge something up from the Flood yourself — and she’s less likely to let you get away with all your fingers.
This is a problem, because Sasha needs Floodproofing. It’s either figure out a way to get the egg across without being lost underneath her placid waters, or pull up stakes and take your chances with the Houses of Parliament, which is a much more perilous route.
***
Ailee, Lucien!
As soon as you step into the cramped wagon, the door low enough to make Lucien duck underneath, all eyes turn to you. The locals are somewhat piscine in appearance; their eyes are large and pale, their whiskers droop in a manner reminiscent of catfish, and their fur is slick and dark, sticking close to their bodies. The smell suggests the drinks here are stale and watery, but only a fool turns down a chance to refill their canteens in the Heart.
Then a small, slavering thing the size of a terrier bursts out from behind a stack of crates and propels itself at high speed, all four paws tucked into its body as it leaps, shooting like a cannonball right at Ailee’s torso. This thing is a missile of pure bloody-minded intent, emphasis on bloody.
The word is flotsam.
The waters are so still that if you squint, you can almost trick yourself into thinking that there’s nothing but a glass plain between you and the Tyrian Spire. Flies the size of pocket-watches hover here and there, and the shores of the Flood here are choked with rusted, mildewed junk, caught in nets of thin wire and thick linen ropes. Not that any of those are yours for the taking: the nets and everything dredged up from the Flood belongs to the salvage-caravan of Beasts here. All around you, their wagons and tents squat, decorated with iron charms and net-charms and icons of the Flood made from glass and her waters; if you want supplies, you’ll either have to deal with them or go well out of your way to dredge something up from the Flood yourself — and she’s less likely to let you get away with all your fingers.
This is a problem, because Sasha needs Floodproofing. It’s either figure out a way to get the egg across without being lost underneath her placid waters, or pull up stakes and take your chances with the Houses of Parliament, which is a much more perilous route.
***
Ailee, Lucien!
As soon as you step into the cramped wagon, the door low enough to make Lucien duck underneath, all eyes turn to you. The locals are somewhat piscine in appearance; their eyes are large and pale, their whiskers droop in a manner reminiscent of catfish, and their fur is slick and dark, sticking close to their bodies. The smell suggests the drinks here are stale and watery, but only a fool turns down a chance to refill their canteens in the Heart.
Then a small, slavering thing the size of a terrier bursts out from behind a stack of crates and propels itself at high speed, all four paws tucked into its body as it leaps, shooting like a cannonball right at Ailee’s torso. This thing is a missile of pure bloody-minded intent, emphasis on bloody.
